Tinnitus

 

There is no silence.

The sea retreating on shingle

as the wave returns

to mother sea

colours the quiet

that is beyond reach.

There is no silence.

White noise fills

the nooks and crannies

of barren conversations

distracting,

turning concentration

from its path.

There is no silence.

Like fungi peopling the striations

of tree stumps,

tinnitus

marks out its all encompassing territory

and leaves no turn untuned

by its cacophony.

There is no silence.

The constant stream flows,

like children in a playground

exciting the moments between bells,

noises its movement

on a broken bed

 

There is no silence.

But the constant conversation

of a friend,

that is no friend,

babbles its chanting unsong

in incessant perpetuity.

There may be silence in sleep

but, unremembered,

it is beyond a horizon

and on another plane.